Page 34 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

the crime I committed

The train ride and short walk to The MET was peaceful and romantic. It would’ve felt like I was living in a romantic comedy if Levi and I weren’t trying to pick out all the ways someone could get murdered in New York—other than the most obvious ways.

“Death-by-sewer-grate,” I stated confidently.

“If you think that tops death-by-neighbor’s-feral-cat, then I’m going to need an explanation,” he responded in an official manner, both of us very serious over this argument.

I’m not sure how we got to such graphic scenarios. But this started when I was frantically demanding that he tie his shoe before stepping onto the train because I saw something on the news once about a person getting their shoelace stuck in the door of a departing train.

He laughed at the story but seconds later he registered that I was genuinely concerned and quickly tied his shoe.

We were only a block away from the museum, and I was doing my best to meet his long strides. He had already slowed down twice, realizing that he had most definitely grown in height and strength during college, while I remained eight inches shorter.

“Imagine you’re walking along the sidewalk, and then someone comes up behind you and pushes you,” I tilted my head to make sure he was following. But when I glanced at him, he’s looking back at me. I had forgotten what it was like to be watched when speaking—not stared at, not looked at, butregarded. From the way his chin dipped to fully consume my vocalized thoughts to the precise manner of his gaze never leaving my lips in order to catch every word. It almost made me trip on the smooth pavement.

“I—uh—then there happens to be a sewer grate in front of you, that happens to be open, and you fall in.”

“This seems extremely circumstantial,” he speculated.

“But your neighbor’s feral cat attacking you isn’t?”

“You’venever been attacked by Marty’s cat.”

Walking up the grand stone steps of the museum, Levi paid for our tickets, pushing away my wallet before I could pull out any cash. I insisted that he let me pay him back, but my words were cut off when I felt his hand on my lower back, leading us into the building. The thick denim of my overalls felt thinner than flower petals under his hand. I wanted to lean into it, but my habit to avoid any physical contact with him was glued to me like a curse, keeping me standing straight.

Keep it together, I reminded myself, it was just a hand—hands that could cover the entire surface area of my backside; that could grab my jaw and tilt my lips upward; that could embed themselves in my hair and make themselves at home.

Oh Jesus.

We passed through galleries of paintings and sculptures, where most of the rooms were dimly lit, only shining light on the paintings themselves. Walls were painted dark mauves, decorated in paintings that were hugged by gold frames. The people that walked by us were quiet, as if there was a silent agreement between everyone to enjoy the art silently.

That’s why the sound of a high-pitched laugh made me jump. I twisted to find a young girl being picked up by her father. He was lifting her in the air, making airplane noises that resulted in a fit of giggles. Bringing her back down to his chest, he brushed her hair out of her face.

I swallowed and stared up at the ceiling. Mom always did it whenever something went wrong at a shoot or show to hold back tears. Something about tilting your chin up.

“How often do you think of him?”

He didn’t look at me when he answered. He stared ahead at the father like he was replaying a tragic dream. “Every single day. I see him in every room I walk into, like he’ll be there waiting for me on the other side of the door. Sometimes, I swear I hear his voice in the morning calling me downstairs. And there are instances when I run down and don’t realize it until I’m halfway down the stairs.” He shook his head and made a sound similar to a laugh but resonated it with defeat. “I don't even live in the same house that he raised me in either.”

His words caused the tears in my eyes to form again. “So it hasn’t gotten any easier?”

He blew out a breath. “It’s not that it hasn’t gotten easier, but rather my eyes and heart refuse to believe what’s real.”

Could I live like that forever? Waiting for my heart to catch up with reality? I had grown accustomed to what life was like without Dad, but that didn’t mean I felt okay.

“I have to show you something that reminds me of you.” As we approached another room of statues, he brought me to a tall marble statue of a man that was missing his lips and nose. It was as if someone sculpted him in the middle of a rhinoplasty procedure that he wasn’t put to sleep for.

I slapped his arm, “I’m not going anywhere with you again.”His laugh reverberated his words and chest. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I promise. I just wanted to see your reaction. The painting is down here.”

My disappointment diminished as he wrapped his hand around my fingers to propel me forward into another hallway. It was only a friendly gesture; we used to hold hands in high school as we moved through the crowded hallways together. Pria from Anatomy always glared at me when she saw us.

I tried not to overthink the feeling of his palm in mine, because this was who he was and always has been: flirtatious. He showed his love for you through words and touches. His love for me was just not the type I desired.

I couldn’t help but glance down at our hands where his sleeve grazed my wrist—oh. I swear, I swear that was my old bracelet— the one made of glass yellow daisies. It looked exactly like the one he made me for my 18th birthday. But I left it sitting at the bottom of my fairy vase, covered by peonies in my windowsill. No, there was no way. It’s been years since I’ve looked at it anyways.

“This one,” he said, stopping me in front of a grand painting that covered the wall.

It was a painting of a pale, well-dressed woman. She wore a voluminous dress that overtook her plush chair; seated at a desk in front of a window, she clutched flowers and a note. It breathed of sunlight; each color used in the painting had a yellow or orange hue. Reading the plaque on the wall, it said: “Love Letters” by Jean Honoré Fragonard.